


Falling Blind

by cadkitten



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alignment Swap, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Guns, M/M, Murder, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic, Violence, gagging on dick, pseudo-date, sex through clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: It's weird, Dick thinks, to be on what amounts to being the opposite side of this invisible line they've all drawn in the sand. Weirder still, that he's actively watching Deathstroke desperately cling to the other side of it.





	Falling Blind

**Author's Note:**

> April 26th - For sladerobinweek mini event - Day 1 Alignment Swap  
> Beta: kate1zena

It's weird, Dick thinks, to be on what amounts the opposite side of this invisible line they've all drawn in the sand. Weirder still, he's actively watching Deathstroke desperately cling to the other side of it. He watches the kids Slade surrounds himself with attempt to do good. Further still, he sees the way Slade tries to navigate the mine field that is his own psyche, his own misgivings, his own allegiance - greasing palms with money he shouldn't have, fast talking government representatives into backing them. It's still a gray line, but it's less of one than it's ever been before.

Dick feels something strange and unsettling in his stomach as he kneels on top of a building that happens to overlook the docks, gun by his side, black suit blending into the last fading rays of dusk. Slade and his crew move in broad daylight, cuff the criminals and hand them over, more than a little roughed up, but Dick can't say he didn't watch the same happen when Jason was by Bruce's side. He can't say he hadn't _wanted_ to do the same when he'd been Robin. Young and angry and filled with loss. Zucco flutters at his memory's edge and he purses his lips, remembers the solid hit of his fists on pliant flesh, remembers the first spray of blood he'd ever taken across the face and the satisfaction in knowing _he'd caused it_. 

He understands those urges more than he wants to. He understands the reasons that make someone cross the line, just as well as he knows why he's out here tonight, gun in hand, desperately trying to blend into the darkness and pretend he's not out to do what he's doing.

 _It's the only way_. 

He's told himself that at least a dozen times since he picked up the gun off a couple goons they took down weeks ago, stashed it away and went back for it later. This is his only path forward, the only way he feels like he's done all he can. He's crossing a line he's never purposely crossed before and it aches behind his breastbone. It settles like lead in his stomach and his hands tremble when he's alone at night in fear of what he's about to do.

There will be no turning back. No yesterday where he hasn't killed and no tomorrow where he's not a killer. Bruce once said _to kill_ changes things and Dick understands that. He's always understood. Even when he was young and filled with despair and hatred, he understood. It's only that now he sees why he has to do this. Just this one time, this one man. It's better this way. Better if the guy doesn't go free and doesn't live to see tomorrow.

Dick doesn't understand why he's kneeling _here_ though, watching Deathstroke with his little gaggle of heroes. Pseudo-heroes? He's uncertain which to call them. He's half a city away from his target, kneeling like a fucking target on top of this building and he has half a mind to think he's trying to get himself caught with a gun before he does the unthinkable. Before he takes the one leap he can never come back from.

He swallows, pushes himself to his feet as night fully envelops them, shoulders his gun and disappears into the night. There's no going back. No rethinking. 

_It's the only way_.

\----

Dick kneels on another rooftop. His hands shake and his head spins. The sickly crawl of bile rises in his throat and he swallows it down for what feels like the hundredth time. This is the edge of panic, tinged in all the things that could be and will be. He feels like there's sickly green edges to his life now, as though he's marked himself with something he can never go back from. He hasn't even done it yet, but the consideration alone makes him a different man than he was even last week. 

He closes his eyes and he thinks about all the pieces to his puzzle, all the reasons why he's ended up here on this rooftop overlooking this sinister man's apartment. He lets himself go over the files in his mind, see the photos of those innocent children, of the blood spilled, of the horrors beyond horrors that even Joker couldn't have dreamed of. He sees the jury that let this man go on the testimony of one corrupt cop who talked of tampered evidence. Dick knows the truth. He was _there_. He watched the man perform his final act before he could reach the child. He knows with a deep certainty that there was no evidence tampering, that the facts presented were the truth. He knows what he would have given to be on the jury and he knows what he's willing to give now.

He swallows and his mouth is dry and the bile gone. His hands still and his heart grows colder than it has ever been before. The ache is in his body, behind his breastbone, a constant thrum of _fear, hurt, violence, anguish_. He lets it be what it is. He lets it swell like it has once in his past, lets it envelop him like it did with Zucco. 

He opens his eyes and his vision is crystal clear. He feels anger and pain and _rage_. It's the one thing Bruce told him to never let take him over and right here, right now, Dick lets it happen.

A shadow passes over the window and Dick sinks into position, he fits the butt of the gun to his shoulder, presses it in until it feels like an extension of himself. He calms his breath and lets the hot flush of what he's about to do envelop him. His finger hooks against the trigger, pulls back just _to_ the point prior to a shot and he finds his target. He waits for the flutter in the curtain, finds verification, and he slowly releases his breath, pausing at the edge of it to take the shot.

A shot rings out, the crack of it loud in the still night air. It's oddly still for Gotham. A gunshot would be swallowed up on a normal night, but tonight it's not. Tonight it's loud and it causes Dick to jerk in surprise because it's _not his_. His finger eases from the trigger, having frozen in pure fear of taking the wrong shot. He thanks everything that he didn't startle into taking an errant shot. Through the scope, he watches his target crumple, sees the spray of blood on the opposing wall through the fluttering curtains. It was the shot he was meant to take. The one he'd been certain about less than a second ago. 

Dick slides into the shadows, his heart thumping quick in his chest. He swallows and tries to sort out what just happened. His hands shake now, as though he had taken the shot. Fear seats him where he is, puts him flat against the back of an AC unit in the inky darkness. Footsteps crunch across the gravel toward him and he's so gone he startles when the gun is yanked from his grip. 

Slade stands there, dressed head to toe in black, no sign of his usual Deathstroke outfit to be found. He wears the hard look of someone who's used to doing what he just did. Dick's rifle joins Slade's on his back and when Slade reaches for him and draws him away, tugs him down the stairwell and steers him into an empty apartment facing away from the complex where Dick's target was just shot, Dick just lets it all happen.

The door clicks shut and Slade kneels, begins to take apart both weapons with an acuity that even Dick's fragmented mind marvels at. 

"What, exactly, were you thinking, _boy_?" It's thrown out there with something like disappointment dripping from it. 

Dick doesn't answer. _Can't_ answer. He'd been thinking about all those children. All those people he failed to save, all the ones that would come after because the justice system failed them all. He can't make his voice work to say these things. Some part of him is still in denial that they happened at all and saying them out loud will make them real. Make all those tiny faces haunt him more than they already do.

Dick closes his eyes and he shakes. He shakes because he can't stop it, because he has no more control over his own body. He can't breathe because he shouldn't breathe in the face of what that man did, of what Dick's had to see, of what he was about to do.

Slade's rough hand grips his chin and pinches until Dick winces and sucks in a gasp of air. "Now is not the time to panic. _You_ did not take that shot, do you hear me?"

Dick shakes harder and Slade sighs, stands up and disappears into the bathroom with the bag of guns. He comes back out with nothing and Dick doesn't question it when he instead veers into the bedroom. He comes back out with clothing. _Two sets_. Clothes are tossed at Dick and when he catches them, more from habit than anything else. They're in his size and he realizes, in that instant, that Slade _knew_. He'd known what Dick was planning and he had come to save him from the dive off this proverbial cliff. 

He undresses without thinking about it, without hesitation or reservation. There's a trust forged in this single act that grants Slade all the leeway he's never had. With one shot, one _bullet_ , Dick would thrash the world for Slade and he knows it with the same certainty he felt the first night out in Gotham at Bruce's side. 

Slade takes Dick's suit and he just lets him, just stands there and allows it to happen.

Just the same, he lets Slade slip his arm around his waist and guide him from the apartment. They step into the elevator and Slade stays glued to his side, turns his head and murmurs softly into his hair, "Act the part, kid. We've got to sell it when we hit the pavement out there. I can't control those cameras the way I have the ones in this building."

Dick lets his gaze slide over their reflections - his stricken look and Slade's slacks and silk shirt. He sees his jeans and t-shirt and hoodie and the way Slade's holding him possessively close and he understands. He's selling the 'I'm sleeping with an older man' bit and it's not a far leap for his mind to take. It's certainly shorter than the one he had been about to back there. 

Dick forces himself to think about it, about sleeping with Slade, about _wanting to_ like he'd thought of so many times in his youth. He recalls the feeling of his hand over his own length in the darkness of his bedroom after facing off against Slade the first time. He remembers shivering and whimpering Slade's name into his pillow so many nights after that and more, he recalls having worked _for_ him in the past. The things he did to protect his team, the person Slade used to be versus the man he is now. He sees sanity in this man's reflection and he doesn't fear for his life by his side. Still, he recalls how fear fueled some of those late-night sessions even while he'd been in Slade's employment. 

Dick straightens his stance, falls willingly into the role, and by the time the elevator doors open, he's relaxed, confident in his sell. His hand is slipped into the back pocket of Slade's slacks and he'd be lying if he tried to say he wasn't intentionally feeling the goods while he was allowed access.

He lets Slade steer him through the lobby and out onto the street. He's right, there's cops here. Dick doesn't let his eyes linger. Instead, he presses closer to Slade's side and listens as Slade says something blatantly dirty that only half registers. Dick lets himself laugh, clings to Slade's shirt, intentionally stumbles a bit and when Slade _saves_ him from the fake fall, Dick presses flush to his front, loops his arms around his neck, and seals the deal with a kiss that's one hundred percent for his own sake rather than for the sell of their little act. 

Slade's lips are warm, pliant. He tastes exactly how Dick always thought he would and it takes restraint not to try to lick the taste straight from his mouth. Excitement burns in Dick's veins as Slade holds him close, kisses him back. By the time they part, someone has whistled and Dick feels disheveled, as though he's been making out for hours not seconds. He forces the issue, doesn't glue himself back to Slade, and instead takes his hand, drags him around the corner, onto the next street, eager and excited. That part he doesn't have to work at. It's only the letdown that's going to hurt on this one.

It's always been easy to lend himself to these emotions, especially in times of pain or anguish or fear. Given any opportunity, Dick has always used sex as an override. He thinks Slade knows this about him, too. He thinks this cover was intentional. 

Once they're blocks away, Dick quietly asks, "The apartment?"

"In my name."

Dick only nods. He understands. Bruce has such places peppered across the city. Places it's okay to see Bruce Wayne leaving from. This was simply a place it's okay to see Slade Wilson leaving from. 

They walk until Dick's certain no one is tracking them or anything more and just as he's about to suggest they part ways, Slade guides them into a small diner instead. They take a seat in the back and Slade crowds Dick into the booth, blocking him in. It should make Dick's senses go into high alert, instead it makes his cock harden in his jeans. He holds back the tremble as Slade slides his arm around his shoulders, leans into his side, and lets whatever this is happen.

The waitress comes by and Slade confidently orders for both of them, a tactic that Dick would normally take affront to, but in this case, finds relief in. It's okay, he knows it is. He closes his eyes and lets his hand wander to Slade's thigh, slowly rubbing over the length of it until his breath is getting lodged in his throat he's so turned on. His heart beats too fast and his entire body feels flighty, weightless. He knows he's leaning hard into his fallback emotions and he knows that means he'll have to clean up his mind tomorrow, but right now he just lets the longing coat him like a warm blanket. 

Once their food - delicious smelling sandwiches and coffee - is delivered, Dick finds he still can't pry himself away from Slade. His hand still rubs over his thigh, his body is still pressed to his side. His toes curl in the perfectly sized tennis shoes. He's so hard it would take barely anything to set him off and he knows it. His hips arch just the slightest and his hand roams further up Slade's thigh, pauses just shy of where he wants to be. Heat burns in his groin and he waits to see if he'll be allowed this transgression.

"Are you thinking rationally?" Slade's voice is low, built to keep this particular conversation within the personal little bubble of their booth.

"I'd like to think so." Dick moves his hand another quarter inch, _just_ shy of his prize. He doesn't look because he wants to be surprised if he's allowed to go this far. 

"I need you to understand that this is your coping mechanism and that I am fully aware of that."

"I know," the words come out like a breath, tainted by want and something verging on desperation. 

"Then it is what it is. You have my consent to whatever it is you're seeking."

The words burn like lava through his insides and Dick's hand is instantly cupping Slade's _very hard_ length through his slacks. He gropes him under the table like a teenager on his first date. He's ready to bust in his own pants just from getting to touch Slade like this. He has the wild thought he wants to be fucked in a bathroom stall and he asks for what he wants before he thinks too hard on it. "Bathroom. _Now_."

Slade chuckles, the sound deep and warm. "Needy, just as I always suspected you would be."

Slade's thought about it. The image of Slade alone and fantasizing about this burns clear in Dick's brain and he shudders with the pleasure of it. 

Dick slides out of the booth behind Slade and they both quickly disappear down the short hallway that leads to the restroom. It's a single stall, a sink, and a small waiting area. Dick shoves Slade into the stall and closes the door behind them, sinking to the floor and immediately leaning in to nuzzle the bulge of Slade's cock through his slacks. He mouths over the straining fabric, forms his mouth over the head and sucks without so much as freeing Slade from his pants. He's always wanted to do this and he's never felt like anyone will tolerate it until now. He releases the fabric and considers the damp spot before snaking his tongue out and licking up the length of it, pressing firmly at the head.

Slade's hand slides into his hair, doesn't tug or direct at all, only rests there, Slade's voice a low rumble that fills their little sanctuary. "Too impatient to get it out or do you just like it like this?"

Dick almost imagines the _kid_ tacked onto the end, the way Slade has always addressed him. Kid or boy or sometimes _Grayson_. Dick shivers at the fact that Slade's old enough to be his father. Hell, older than that, really. He won't lie, can't lie to himself really. He's always had a thing for older men. There's proof enough in all his fantasies if nothing else. 

He licks his lips and sits back on his heels, lets his lust paint his face the beautiful picture he knows it makes. "Both." There's truth in that, too. He's wanted it like that, but he also didn't want to stop long enough to open Slade's pants. Now, he stares placidly up at Slade, eyelids heavy. His cheeks feel flushed and he knows how he looks when he's this aroused. Kori once called it the look of a sex angel. Dick isn't sure about angels and sex going together, but he figures he'll take it. 

Shivering, he rocks back to rest against the stall wall, hips arching to show the tent he's making in his jeans. He cups it and jerks a few times, widening his thighs and imagining Slade taking what _he_ wants. 

Slade steps closer, unzips and unfastens his belt, leaving his briefs in place as he boxes Dick in with his thighs. His hand delves into Dick's hair again and he guides him back toward his groin. "If you want it so bad, then suck it, kid."

Dick almost comes apart at that. He almost fills his pants with thick pulses of hot, creamy cum and he _thinks_ about that for a moment before leaning in to nuzzle Slade's cock. He rubs his cheek and lips and nose against the fabric-encased length of it repeatedly, breathing hotly against the tip, and then sliding his mouth over the head, the cotton forming to him easier than the material of his slacks had. He wets the cotton with his saliva in a way he hadn't dared with Slade's slacks and eagerly sucks him right through his underwear. 

Slade grunts and holds him close, the hand in his hair directing now instead of a lingering presence and it makes Dick hotter if that's even possible with how hot he already was. He forces the material to accommodate what he wants and wraps his fingers around the base of the delicious cotton-covered cock and takes him in as far as he'll go, lets Slade's dick nudge the back of his throat until his eyes water, until he has to fight his gag-reflex and he feels his own prick straining in his jeans. He's close. So achingly close.

He comes up and spits on his length, jacks him with the material of his underwear as he pants, shudders and then goes back down on him, bobbing his head frantically until he can't stand it any longer and comes up to gasp in air and rip Slade's underwear out of the way. He goes back down with abandon, nearly gagging on every slide down, swallowing on the slide up. Tears track down his cheeks and he knows he's going to lose it, _wants_ to lose it just from doing this. His hand abandons Slade's length in favor of wrenching his own pants open.

He comes up off Slade's length with a startled cry and barely gets his pants out of the way before he's cumming, splashing thick spurts of white across the dark brown tiles. 

Slade watches him from where he's propped on one elbow, looming over him. He pets Dick's hair affectionately and then grips it, gently guiding him back to his cock. Dick sinks down on him willingly and Slade groans out, "That's right, boy. Just like that," and if Dick hadn't already cum, he would have right there, right at those words.

He sucks with finesse now, using all his best tactics instead of sucking because _he_ needs it. He uses his hand and his mouth and when he looks up, Slade looks like he's barely holding on. Dick shudders and goes down all the way, holds it against his body's attempts to gag, holds it until his throat relaxes, and it's then that pleasure paints Slade's face, his hand tightening in Dick's hair, his groin pressing tight to Dick's face, and then his cock is twitching, emptying down his throat, and Dick's swallowing desperately against the onslaught. 

It's Slade that pulls away first, easing his softening cock from between Dick's lips and taking a step back to turn and grab some toilet paper. He kneels and reaches to hold Dick's chin and it feels like a flashback to _before_. Before while he was panicked, before while he was hazing out. But then Slade's touch is gentle, wiping an errant dribble of his own cum from Dick's face and then reaching down to wipe the floor, discarding the tissue into the toilet and leaning forward to give Dick a hard kiss. It isn't deep and romantic, it isn't anything other than a kiss, really. It is what it is and Dick thinks he prefers it that way. 

Slade stands and exits the stall, goes to wash his hands and Dick takes a moment to pick himself up, tuck himself away, and try not to look as fucked out as he feels. By the time he gets to the sink, Slade is gone and Dick half wonders if he will find the bill paid and Slade gone when he steps outside the restroom. He tries not to feel one way or another about that even as he knows he's not succeeding. While he doesn't want romance with Slade, he _does_ want something. Whatever this is. Just like this. Uncomplicated and existing in the space between things. Something to fall back on and into when he needs it. 

He ducks out of the bathroom and barely dares to look at the booth. He finds Slade sitting there, where Dick had been sitting and he slides in beside him with something that feels like relief. 

They're quiet through most of their sandwiches and Dick's halfway through his coffee before Slade offers, "I don't do relationships, kid."

Dick lets that roll in his mind, finds he doesn't have an issue with it, and he shifts to place his elbow on the table, leans on it and peers up at Slade, gives him his best sultry look. "Not what I'm after."

He sees the hint of what could be a smile somewhere behind Slade's usual demeanor and he doesn't miss the sparkle of amusement in Slade's eye.

"It could work," Dick finds himself saying. "Just both of us getting what we want. Pleasure and a known quantity." He doesn't say that this is also his thanks for saving him tonight. He doesn't say that he doesn't only seek a warm body for a coping mechanism, that he also seeks it as a way of making things up to someone. He thinks if Slade knew the rest of it, he probably knows this, too.

Slade fishes out his wallet, tosses money for their bill on the table and holds a sleek black card out to Dick between his index and middle finger. "Share this with Daddy Bats and we're done. Clear?"

Dick shivers, takes the card, stares down at Slade's name and a phone number printed beneath it. There's no further information on the card and Dick _knows_ he's been invited into a very personal ring of Slade's inner circle. He tucks the card deep in his pocket and nods his understanding. He won't share. He needs this more than he can ever explain. 

They stand and Slade leans in, puts an arm around Dick, and presses his lips to his ear. "I expect great things from you, _Grayson_." Dick shivers and Slade lets him go and walks away. 

Somehow, it feels fitting like this, too. Just watching him leave like it's nothing at all. He doesn't feel upset or unhappy. Rather, he feels like he has the world ahead of him and he feels like - knowingly or not - Slade performed more than one act of good tonight. He lets his smile paint his face as he accepts a coffee to go from the waitress and steps out onto the street. Maybe it's strange, but he feels safe with Slade as his ally.


End file.
